


Terminal Genesis

by Khadgarfield



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Angst, Childe/Sire Bond(s), M/M, Oral Sex, This is the fanfiction equivalent of God having sex with Adam, shortfic, theophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:00:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28027419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khadgarfield/pseuds/Khadgarfield
Summary: The first thing the Prince could remember was the exquisite trauma of his birth.
Relationships: Denathrius (Warcraft)/Renathal (Warcraft)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 83





	Terminal Genesis

The first thing the Prince could remember was the exquisite trauma of his birth.

It always returned in quiet moments, when conversation lulled and there was nothing left to do but drink deeply from a crystalline cup. Renathal closed his eyes, blocking out the Venthyr that meandered through the depths of Sinfall. The darkness reminded him of the void that had existed before he saw anything at all.

If he let that thought take root, Renathal could recall the moment he was hauled from the womb of the abyss, and thrust into consciousness without his consent. Long white hair, smelling of ash and hawthorn, was what those first few moments were made of. It spilled across his shoulders, and pooled in the contours of dust that had formed his flesh. He had no memory, at that time, no context for anything he was experiencing outside of the instinct that there was only two real things in the cosmos. Those two things were himself, and the other.

The other had high cheekbones and vivid eyes. The other filled all of his senses at the same time. The other, before it was ancient, was young and incandescent, yet still it was far, far older than Renathal could quantify. It was the other who bled himself into a bespoke frame, one wrought of clay and devoid of mind, and delivered the kiss of life and of awareness. That kiss formed a name that would be his own.

 _Renathal_.

And the other?

_Denathrius._

Denathrius, who said there shall be life, and who made life. Who saw that life was good, and sought to make more. Denathrius sunk his hands to the wrists in volatile mud, and he dragged a simulacrum of twisted nature out of it. He constructed the skyline of Revendreth, he divided the dawn and the twilight, and he set candles in the crypts of the realm to emulate a cycle of heavenly lights. On days he rested, Renathal cut his teeth on Denathrius’ spare rib. He drunk deeply from the ichor fountain at his throat. His master kept chambers overflowing with mystical silks, and boxes that glimmered with thew illusionary magic of sacred ore and gems. He dressed himself in cloth so light it felt like liquid in Renathal’s fist, or so heavy it could have been hemmed with the tails of falling stars. Renathal adored Denathrius in an ardent way that had no name, because adoring him was just an unrecognized aspect of his reality. He would only learn a word for it

_(Love)_

after eternities had passed.

From daybreak to dusk, Denathrius and his childe were bound together. Denathrius taught him everything he knew about _everything._ Even himself.

“Do you remember what you were before I made you?” he asked once, expression introspective. Soft.

“I was nothing, before you made me,” Renathal replied.

“Not true,” His Sire told him, and he said it with humility that he would never display, now. “I made your body, and I made your mind. But your soul is the product of something greater than myself.”

“My soul is not of your hands?”

He shook his head.

“Not even I can make that.”

Renathal had pondered this, not feeling anything even as he compared himself to all the souls they had spent eras redeeming so far. _There is nothing of them inside me_ , he thought, though perhaps that was just because unlike them, he had a material form. Would he feel differently if he was sundered from it? Or would he simply go back to the great unknowing?

“I had thought my essence was a splinter of your own.”

“Perhaps a part of it is,” Denathrius said thoughtfully, tilting his chin so that thick fall of luminous hair ignited in the glow of the lamplight. “Perhaps you are something altogether different. A hybrid of a recycled soul and my own. You are certainly my favourite creation, and the one which I laboured most devoutly over.”

And perhaps it might have stayed like that always, just the two of them for all time, were it not for an idea that Renathal had unwittingly planted in his head, now.

_I had thought my essence was a splinter of your own._

If he had created something once, at the cost of a fragment of his own soul, then why couldn’t he do it again?

No other Venthyr, no other creature or object in the whole of Revendreth, came close to being as perfect as Renathal was, though. The new souls retained their memories better than he did. They still bore the marks of their lives even after death. None had come to Denathrius unsullied, and none seemed truly capable of bearing a part of him inside. Mostly, they came out as flawed and willful children, still very much reflections of who they were in life. If it was true, and Renathal knew it was in the same way he knew the feeling of Denathrius building his bones, then he thought it nearly boarded on tragic - The Sire could only truly make a new soul once, by accident, through a mechanism of fusion that he did not know.

As he failed more in his labours, his need for Renathal increased tenfold. He spoke openly of a desire to keep him close by, to share with him every drop of the anima that bled through the veil between death and life. He was still beautiful, yes – Renathal thought he could never not be beautiful – but all that beauty could not stop him from growing harder and colder and more desperate. Dentathrius’ failures left him feverish in the way that living bodies were feverish, and Renathal soon discovered why he had chosen to build his Venthyr in the image of himself.

Renathal’s body became an unfolding garden, full of strange features he had never thought to know before, and the exchange of closeness between them cycled from transcendent to merely carnal.

Denathrius was larger, stronger, and more demanding, but during their windows of education he always yielded until Renathal was ready to respond. The two of them had spent an afterlife purging sin from the wicked, but for those times that Denathrius’ drew him near to himself Renathal felt so good he wondered if _this_ counted as sin, too. All this pressing together, twisting together... there was no purpose for this, outside of pure indulgence. They drowned together in a river of anima, and Denathrius’ hands curled over his own.

His Sire’s skin throbbed with heat beneath cautious palms. Renathal was hesitant to touch him at first, but Denathrius showed him where to caress, and how to explore, and soon the prince found himself enraptured by the way his chest expanded at his touch. He had forgotten that Denathrius had a body that could emulate breathing. As if to make a point of it, Denathrius sighed as Renathal’s hands glided across the dip at the base of his throat. He reclined against the pillows on the chaise, luxuriating in the moments they could spend alone together in a cloistered, opulent room, and he smiled, a magnificent smile. He dragged his fingers through Renathal’s hair in admiration.

It was so like his own.

“Are you hungry, dear Prince?”

“I am. Are you, Sire?”

“Insatiably.”

The Venthyr needed no sustenance, save that flowing burgundy byproduct of sin. And in light of the drought that was beginning to grip the realm, what better place to find sin than to make ones own?

Denathrius kissed him in the way he did long ago, but he used his teeth now too, and let his sharp talons drag marks on Renathal’s skin. With a gentle push, he guided the Prince down his body, to the rigid points of his nipples and the smooth curves of his chest. His stomach was hard and thick, sculpted into shapes of his own divine design. Renathal followed a spark of inspiration, dragging his tongue over the plane of his master’s chest, and between them Denathrius’ belly quivered in anticipation. The taste of his skin was richer than the taste of anima, and infinitely headier. His soft sound of pleasure shot an echo along an ethereal thread - the unseen link that bound them together even when they were distant. That connection was what Renathal had come to call creation.

_Dear creation._

As he lapped at his Sire’s breast, stroking the shallow dip of his navel and the ridges of his hips, Renathal could sense the static of satiation flooding into him. His hunger was deep and bottomless, but so was this fountain of penance. Denathrius groaned lowly in appreciation.

“Do you do this of your own free will?”

Free will? And what was free will?

All Renathal knew was that he craved this - craved it with the desperation of a newborn even after millennia. His recollection of first consciousness was fresher than it had been for centuries, as he followed the channel of Denathrius’s body over his stomach and down between his thighs. That blissful sense of resonance, and his familiarity with this other, was an ecstasy that only now he had the wisdom to appreciate.

“I do,” he said, as he untied the front of his master’s pants, curled his hand around the rigid line of his cock, and kissed him there.

Denathrius seemed to melt, letting Renathal take control as he never had before. His length was thick, and throbbing with heat. It was responsive to the softest brush of lips. Renathal explored the terrain, dragging his mouth across the smooth, blunt tip, and swallowing the glimmering beads of wetness that dripped over the head. His own body shivered as Denathrius stroked his hair, pushing softly down on the back of his head to prompt him to swallow until his throat was full. Swallow until he felt himself choke. Renathal swallowed right up until he felt a sharp arrow of delight dart through his core, and land in the fertile providence of his loins. His own body was responding, his own bespoke cells resonating with the low keening sounds Denathrius made as he fed on him.

And then, Denathrius regained himself.

He pulled Renathal up to kiss him with fervor. He pushed off his clothes and pressed him down against pillows. He moved himself to tower in the spot between Renathal’s parted thighs. Denathrius’ body was haloed by a cloud of sacral anima, it sublimed at the point where his skin met space, and Renathal reached for him so he might return to that singularity fully. Return to that radiating, pulsing point from whence he had came. Denathrius broke him open with anointed oils, slicked his cock so he might unify them, and he moved through Renathal’s corporeal form in a wave that felt like agony and transcendence all at the same time. To be taken like this was just another emanation, just another simulation of that original perfect monad, but oh what a glorious one it was. What a sensual, fleeting, magnificent shadow of something so ideal it could not be fully conceptualized.

This mirrored that point before the beginning. When he was still a part of Denathrius in his entirety. It did not matter to Renathal, what providence his soul might have had before that, because ever since Denathrius had forged him a heart everything else in the universe was _him._ Always him. Only him.

Denathrius moved his hips with the power and confidence that might have been expected, his arms pillars that held Renathal like the buttresses held up the castle walls. His hair fell in a typhoon, tickling the places it touched, and beneath him Renathal felt his body fall into a pattern that might have been gasping, too – his own chest, it seemed, held a copy of Denathrius’ own unnecessary lungs. The harsh gasps did serve to deepen the pleasure of it, though, as did the scrape of teeth against his neck. His Sire bit intro him gently at first, and then with force, and Renathal felt his eyes tip back and his body quake as a powerful sigh of ecstasy pulled through him.

_Good. So very good._

So intoxicating, to have Denathrius drink of him, too.

Denathrius brought him to climax that first time, with a shudder and a sound that was shared between them both and that resonated with honeyed awe and terror. Satisfaction filled them. It was temporary, yes, but better than nothing. This was their only redemption – their only reprieve from the hunger and the vanity and the yearning. They joined together like this time after time, sometimes for entire seasonal cycles, and every time they did Denathrius changed a little more.

Soon, his robes were awash with anima, blinding white and bleeding traces of elusive power. To the others, he seemed cleansed and all powerful, but Renathal could sense him falling further into a state of lunacy. When a black light shone upon him, Renathal could see the sin on his hands, and the fingermarks on his own flesh where his creator had touched him. 

Renathal began to see him from a distance, after a while, his light laughter feeling like an ache in his core that left him so much less naieve and vulnerable than he was, the first time his visage had met the Prince’s eyes. In fact, Renathal began to feel like he saw the Master as everyone else did, now. He was infatuated still, but simultaneously saddened by his insight into the reality of things. So saddened, in fact, that something akin to a memory stirred in him. It was the feeling of sorrow that was not his own.

Perhaps the wakening of a tranquilised soul?

And the anima, of course, grew lesser and lesser. The hunger grew more and more. His Sire spiraled.

A hallowed creator morphed slowly into a demiurge.

The sacred thread that bound them once was silent, now – no formless or ephemeral thing flickered through it, like a narcotic silencing the memories of his primeval essence, which stirred in the deep places of his mind. Their link had not been reforged for many cycles - Renathal had ceased to partake of communion of the father, or drink from the poisoned cup of his sacred blood. Sometimes, though, as Renathal stood in the high places of Revendreth and felt the distant rumble of the maw echoing through the ozone, he could feel a tug at the place inside of him that had first blossomed with the gift of awakening.

He wondered if Denathrius could feel it too.

He wondered if he would miss it, that last corresponding fragment of his maker, when it was gone.

**Author's Note:**

> keen to see how fast all of this becomes proven false as we learn more about dennys actual background.
> 
> Obviously it will never be false that these two have had sex, but like. the other stuff.
> 
> love yous xoxo  
> your friend garf


End file.
